Champion Snapshots
by Heaven's Eagle
Summary: Brief looks into the lives of the League Champions. Taking Champion requests.


**Welcome to the League Champion Snapshots, in which I will take a look into the character of each Champion in League. This will be updated whenever I feel like it, which means I have to get some inspiration to write a Champion. I have one more in reserve, but whatever. If I get requests to do certain Champions, I'm very likely to listen to them, so bear that in mind.**

**Without further ado, have some depressing Maokai drabbling. (This takes place before the Twisted Treeline map was changed, so... yeah).  
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If mortal eyes were to look upon the treeline, they would in all likelihood wish that they had not. Each tree was indistinct from its neighbours, the seemingly impenetrable wall of bark shadowed and foreboding. Even should the sunlight strike them, these trees were not ones of welcome. And behind the solid, living castle that the jungle formed, there was no movement. The only things that dared to dwell here, within this angry forest, were things that were themselves angry. Dangerous, predatory things that thirsted for nothing but blood and death. Occasionally, a sound would be heard in the twilight silence: as the sky bled out into nighttime and the sun's last rays scorched it orange, the scrape of a leather wing rasped through the trees.

_Here Be Dragons._

After several further minutes of the eerie quiet, a howl rose above the treetops, trembling in the cooling air. But the jungle monsters' threats fell on empty lanes; there were no Champions to hear them. The wolf pack howled in vain, for there were no enemies to hunt. The Dragon, wiser than its fellows, waited quietly, its only sound the leathery rasp of its wingbeats, heavy in the stagnant air.

Not until the silvery moon cast its glow was movement seen. It came first in the sound of groaning tree limbs, creaking as they walked through the darkness. After a few moments, it came in the glimmering form of an indigo lantern, dancing slowly through the jungle.

Soon enough, a creature – not alive, never alive, but neither was it dead – emerged from the trees as if by magic. There was no gap through which it appeared, but it seemed to meet no resistance in its progress. The creature paused when it was met with moonlight, lifting what could only be its face (eyes glowing like magenta flames) to observe the source. A second later, the ancient mossy bark split apart into a fanged rift, and a voice spilled from that primeval _throat_.

"Moonlight. Strange for you to fall here." The words were not spoken. They were _growled_. Even in the most solace that the creature could hope to find, not a syllable was free of the growl. Whatever this monster uttered was filled with the ageless wrath of the jungle.

Slowly, lantern weaving through the air behind him, the twisted treant turned towards the treeline once more, melting seamlessly into the gloom. His form was lost, and only the pale indigo light gave indication to his location. Sometimes, if one was unlucky, a glimpse of his magenta firestorm eyes could be seen through the thick trees.

Soon enough, he passed by the hunting wolves. The leader of the pack whimpered, shying away from the unnatural glow that surrounded the treant. It was all too aware of what the lantern-wearing tree could do to them. As all the dangerous creatures that braved inhabitation of the jungle, the wolves knew that the light was not a means of keeping track of the mighty oak.

It warned of his approach.

As the treant continued deeper into the trees, his glow passing by the Alpha and its pack, the wolves' tails lifted into the air again, their ears retreating from their skulls. Once his eerie lantern had vanished, leaving only the echoes of moonlight, the wild dogs returned to their futile hunt – occasionally exchanging glances. They did not need their voices to communicate at close quarters, and spooked by the encounter, their howls rang ever quieter under the dim canopy, their pawsteps ever more hesitant.

The treant reached the Dragonpit, and paused once again. The Dragon, its bright eyes shining, landed with no more than a rustle of wings and undergrowth, tilting its head to meet the roaming creature's magical gaze. Without breaking eye contact, the Dragon shifted closer; even including the vicious Elder Lizard that had conquered the southern jungle, Dragon was the only monster that dared to interact with him.

The Dragon, unlike the treant, was not capable of _human_ speech. But Maokai had been part of this jungle far longer than he had been alive in the human sense of the word, and the Dragon's meaning was clear to him as the moonlight that streamed into the pit.

_You seem especially troubled, treant,_ the Dragon observed, blinking its glittering sea-green eyes. Emerald scales bleached under the moon's power, it was still the most majestic beast in either jungle, easily Maokai's height even when on all four taloned paws. _I assure you, Ezreal was particularly delicious._ Maokai, for all his bitter fury, could at least see the humour in the Dragon's words.

Once again, the face split apart to issue the treant's rumbling voice. "That, at least, is comforting, Dragon." Acknowledged, the Dragon snorted smoke and settled itself down in the leaf litter and heavy stone slabs.

Just before it folded one wing over its head to sleep, the Dragon looked over with one gleaming eye. _You should rest, treant. Not even you can exist on magic alone._

That said, the Dragon folded itself up and began to purr softly. Knowing that he would get no more conversation from the sleeping leviathan, Maokai took his leave from the creature. Once again, he emerged from the jungle and onto a lane. For a moment, he stopped, looking up at the inactive tower. Without a 'team' to protect, its normally coloured spires were a dull grey. Soon enough, it would glow with magical pain, dealing naught but death to those foolish enough to wander too close.

Then, the treant moved towards the dormant statue, lantern glowing softly. With a creak and groan of afflicted oakwood, Maokai settled himself beside the newly restored turret, letting his toes dig into the stony dirt. At least, rooted like this, he felt a little less magic. Even though he couldn't be at peace, he could at least still feel the life around him through shared ground.

A patch of silver on the lane caught his luminescent eye. Leaning down as far as his twisted body would allow, Maokai scraped misshapen fingers across the glistening pool. When he pulled away, the sticky liquid clung to his hand, and the bark face cracked into a scowl.

Washed-out in the moonlight, the pool was blood. It was still fresh from the last battle that had been Championed here, enough so that it hadn't yet dried.

How pointless was it, truly, for these people to fight and kill each other for the sake of trivial disagreements? Maokai knew his feelings were slightly out of line, when he took into account that he too fought and killed and died for those petty Summoners, but he – unlike the others – had no choice, should he want to go truly _home_.

It was at that moment, in Maokai's helpless thoughts, that the beacon atop the tower flashed purple. In a burst of light, the turrets that lined the two lanes of the Twisted Treeline flared into shimmering life. All along the lanes, and marking the thin jungle paths, coloured torches exploded into flame, lighting the ways in and out. Maokai, unmarked by a Summon, was safe from the turrets; they would not recognise his existence. Even so, he rose from his resting place and lumbered into the jungle, quickly settling himself amongst the trees, out of sight.

It was time for a Game on the Fields of Justice.

From the direction of the Dragonpit, he heard a faint roar, edged in irritation. It would be some time before the Dragon got any sleep. At the same time, there was a brief glow, signalling to Maokai that the Dragon had been branded with its unique Respawn Sigil. Once again, Marked Champions would fight and die for conflicts that were not their own.

And once again, Maokai would watch blood be spilled for no reason other than _magic_.

Soon enough, Brand made his appearance in the top lane, blistering with flames. Despite the magical fire with which his eyes burned, Brand's conflagration was so potent it almost seemed to glimmer in Maokai's unwavering stare, overriding the pink that glowed there. A pillar of flame ignited on the heads of more unfortunate minions, making their Sigils burn for a split second before they keeled over on the scorched ground, dead for now.

Fire flared again and again as Brand farmed the minions, occasionally sparring with his laning opponent. Ashe herself missed not one ice-tipped arrow, ripping into Brand's charred flesh, though it wasn't enough to dissuade him. But Maokai cared little for their skirmishing or their pain. The treant simply watched the flames that Brand conjured.

The magic infused within his body made Maokai too resistant to normal flames to burn. But perhaps, with Brand's power, the pyre would take. Sometimes, Maokai wondered if it would be a better fate; to burn at the hands of the magic that destroyed him, rather than serve it while its wielders promised a return to his old life. Somewhere, Maokai knew that even should he be granted his former state, his awareness would never fade. Life, once created, can never be simply _un_-created.

No, Maokai's only true freedom would lie in death, and what better way for a treant to die than to burn?

There was little to be gained from speaking to Brand, though. For all of his power, Brand was a maniac; he would never end Maokai's travesty of a life merely because he was asked to. But then, Brand wasn't Maokai's only option. Perhaps dragonfire would be sufficient to kill the twisted old oak.

It was with this line of thought that Maokai watched Brand and Ashe square off, the flames remnant of Brand's attacks drawing his attention. And it was this line of thought that became interrupted when he felt an invisible sheet of icy silk fall around his body. It was too soon, and yet not soon enough; his sap began to boil and bubble under his bark. He had been _selected_. Should the selection not prove false, Maokai was about to be Summoned.

Forgotten were his thoughts of suicide. Forgotten were his dreams of fire. The numbing thrill of the fight was surging through his body. And a minute later, the silky ice turned into a hollow sensation that felt like what all Champions imagined it would feel like to be pumped full of helium. And just like that, without sound, light or fanfare, Maokai vanished from his post in the Twisted Treeline.

Not a second passed before he condensed on a white platform, etched with glyphs that glowed blue. Around him, he saw four others, all of whom he recognised: Ahri, tossing her magical orb and flirting with Varus. The Arrow of Retribution returned the smirk and giggle with a blank scowl; his signature expression. His bow, held together by magics much darker than those that had forged Maokai's soul, glowed harsh purple, tainting his already infected skin.

Behind the treant, white-furred Volibear – eyes fizzing blue with the power of his lightning gauntlets – finished fastening the speed-enhancing bands around his hindpaws and trudged off to top lane, refusing communication with his team. Lastly, Sona watched him leave with sad, amber eyes, and then turned her soft gaze on Maokai. She said nothing, as she never did, but she did tap out a three-note rhythm on her etwahl before fastening a Faerie Charm around her wrist. Quickly, she tucked four Sight Ward-capsules in a tiny belt designed to hold items, and added a Health Pot. The red liquid was held in a small, test tube-like case, easy enough to gulp down should she get injured.

Silently, Sona beckoned to Varus and turned towards bot lane. Varus fastened the same speed-bands around his ankles, dropped three Health Pots into his belt (all Champions had one, of a sort), and followed his laning partner.

Maokai ignored the shopkeeper, wordlessly accepting the Cloth Armour badge and five Health Pots. Now that his Summoner had decided what items he would begin the fight with, the treant expected orders. Since Summoners were, naturally, barred from being anywhere near the Fields of Justice, the communication of choice was telepathy. It was also the only way for a Summoner to communicate with someone such as Sona, or even Cho'Gath when he lost his tongue.

_Start with the wolves here,_ came a female voice in Maokai's head, officially beginning this Game. He hesitated only for a second, making sure his Summons mark was in place, and then plodded down Ahri's mid lane and off towards the wolves. With a giggle and a wink, Ahri – hastened by speed-bands and ready to fight with three Health Pots – sidled past him and waited for the wolves to appear. Their Summoners, as they always did, were co-operating in this effort.

_Then go for the Ancient Golem._ Blue Buff it was, then. Maokai appreciated the effort, although his Summoner would have been fairly stupid to suggest many things else. Then again, his Summoner already seemed fairly stupid.

Mentally, Maokai replied. _There is no escape._


End file.
